


choice & control

by forpeaches (bluecarrot)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-08 00:07:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19860274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/forpeaches
Summary: Even the gods do not control the space behind our eyes.And Jaime had a dream.





	choice & control

**Author's Note:**

> written 18-20 june 2019.
> 
> for William: as wretchedly arrogant and impossibly dear as any Lannister could ever be. Beautiful, beloved, dead.

Long before it happened, the gods intended Jaime Lannister to be captured, held awhile, passed along like a hot potato to Brienne of Tarth, and set free.

Falling in love was a complete mistake.

They were to travel together and be caught by madmen and separate again. Brienne would die — that was fine, she didn’t matter to anyone but her father and some girls in the kitchens; her only role had been to meet Jaime for a week and be caught and raped a half-dozen times and bleed out if she happened to bleed, it did not signify. She was nothing to the world and the gods meant her to die. They meant Jaime to listen and suffer and keep his fool mouth shut.

He didn’t.

They meant him to lose his hand for speaking and he did do that, it was no great difference if he lost it over the wench or for his own cussed stupidity. The hand was what mattered.

Jaime wept.

They meant him to fall asleep with his head in mud a dozen dozen times, and so he did; they meant him to be found and fed and tended, to leave behind Harrenhall and the wench and his hand too, and go home. _Go home Jaime,_ said the nudging wind at his heels. _Lannisport, Kings Landing, fine sheets and sweet wine, sweeter kisses. Go home._

Obediently mindless, he turned his face towards the sun and started out.

But even the gods do not control the space behind our eyes. And Jaime had a dream.

He woke up to the sound of camp waking — clattering cooking iron, birdsong, men’s low tones. The crisp scent of morning in the open land. For a moment he didn’t know where he was, or when or even who — the last thing he remembered was a face. It was not someone he recognized but someone he loved.

He tried to sit up, tried to push the hair out his face, and could do neither easily: then he remembered.

Memory brought only a dull tiredness because he remembered too he was going home. Home would be Cersei and Tyrion and home would be _better._ They didn’t expect anything dreadful of him at home. They’d never seen him beg to die and told him without a shred of mercy that he still had to live.

Brienne was the only one who had done that. Brienne ... whom he’d left in Harrenhall, grim and ugly and brave, her freckles standing out sharp and dark, she was so pale.

The gods knew he hadn’t been brave. _D’ye think I care about my teeth?_ she’d said, furious at the idea she should accept cruelty as her due. _I would have made them kill me,_ he’d said: and the gods were listening, because that was about four hours before he learned that he would not necessarily have the option of death.

He wrapped a cloak around him — another thing he’d have to practice doing with one hand — and looked out.

This valley was due south of Harrenhall, and they were fairly deep into it; the sun would be midway up before they saw its rays.

Jaime shut his eyes as he had when he was a boy, to picture the great map under glass on his father’s table.

Casterly Rock and Lannisport were west of here; Kings Landing east-by-south; Maidenpool — he wouldn’t think of Maidenpool.

Only Harrenhall was north.

And they were heading south-southeast. 

Into the fire went potatoes, tucked into the smoldering ashes; above them were the iron legs of the great broad spiders, holding cooking pots bubbling with drink.

Someone — Golyn? Golshe? he could not remember — saw Jaime was arisen and came over to speak. “Another day, maybe two on this road, and we’ll have you home, my lord.”

“No,” said Jaime. “You won’t.”

The only way to get through a battle was to act on instinct. Instinct had to override all the sensible, every day commonplace urges to tuck tail and run the fuck away from danger and pain and foul, screaming death at the end of it. That was why they trained to exhaustion day after day: not to be efficient murderers but to stop remembering they were murdering at all.

Jaime, a soldier, managed not to think ahead a good portion of the time. Tyrion and his father had told him (in varying tones over the years) that he had more brains than he bothered to use. Only Cersei looked at him and said he was perfect as he was, her beautiful lover, her beautiful mirror, her own ...

So he’d joined the Kings Guard by pretending it was a battle and watched his sister marry Baratheon by pretending and saw her bear his own children and raise them, all the while pretending he wasn’t able to think at all. He pretended he didn’t see the scorn on his father’s face and the disappointment on Tyrion and, worse than either, the expression Cersei wore more and more nowadays — like he was important to her but she could not quite remember why.

So.

Jaime pushed his way to the front of the crowd like it was his goddamn _right,_ and ducked under the retaining boards meant to keep out people like him, and he managed to jump down into the bear-pit right next to Brienne without thinking a single fucking thing.

 _“Jaime?!_ ” she said in utter astonishment.

Good, he thought. At least I impressed one person.

“Are you _mad?_ No, no!” as he stepped in front of her and tried to hold her behind him. “No, you idiot, you bloody well _don’t!”_

But she was tired and frightened and bleeding, from where it had already caught her, and she’d been crying besides — and her sword was broken. (Broken? he thought. No. Splintered, it was splintered. It was wood.)

He found a human jawbone, crawling with ants, and threw it with humiliatingly ineffectual aim.

A wood sword and a one handed man and a girl in a dress. Fine odds. No wonder the watching crowd was reacting with noisy joy.

And she was next to him again, shouting something he didn’t hear, distracted by his own stupidity and the presence of a thousand-pound enormity of hair and claws — and now she was on the side being pulled up into the crowd, and now he heard her voice yelling _Jaime_.

The bear was very close.

When they took his hand she hadn’t screamed she hadn’t argued or even said his name, when they took his hand, when they took it she sat silent and still and didn’t say a word

_Jaime, to me!_

And then he was gripping on to her outstretched hand and scrabbling up the wall, no easy task for a cripple wearing worn-out boots, and Brienne grabbed the back of his tunic and held on with the strength she’d used to push his face in the stream, and then he was up and prone and he wanted to just lie on the wood deck without anyone trying to kill him for a single damned moment but she was jerking him to his feet and that stupid louse was lisping something about payment

Oh he’d be paid, alright —

Brienne pulled him back, holding his left arm. “Not yet,” she said into his ear, low under the noise. “Not here.”

So Jaime only smiled.

“They gave you a tourney sword,” he said to her, after. “They had to have known you couldn’t ...”

She stared at him. “Jaime, it was a _joke_. They meant me to make it ... make the fun last longer. They never meant me to survive.”

He didn’t answer.

They didn’t speak for miles, the horses going together silent likewise; then she said “Why did you come back?” for all the world as if they’d been talking the whole time.

The air held still, listening.

Jaime shrugged and smiled and lied. “I had a dream about you,” he said.

The dream was true. But that wasn’t why he’d come back.

Home slipped over him like a golden noose, a necklace so fine he only felt the weight and did not see the chains. Home home home, it was home and Kings Landing and his own smells, the own sounds of his own accent around him, louder than the mixed mumble of the marketplace.

 _Home_. Even the sunlight on the walls was different.

So when they put hands on Brienne, he gave barely a nod; he didn’t even hear her yell.

“You took too long,” said Cersei.

Jaime stood rooted to the ground. _Too long._ “We belong together, we are the _same—”_

“Not anymore,” she said. She was looking at his missing hand, bandaged and swollen and smelling and sore. It would take months to heal, the maester had said. Perhaps ... longer.

But the maester had left Jaime the rest of his arm, even after he passed out from pain and wine; he had stitched it and cleaned it and wrapped it, and when their own Pycelle unwound the linens, he shook his head.

“That bad?” said Jaime, grim. “How much worse can it get?”

“On the contrary, it is very neat. He is a talented man. Not everyone can save this much, after this much rot.” He gave Jaime a hard look. “The gods saved you, and this Qyburn as well. Let it be worth something.”

As he let he remembered that wench saying _You have to live_.

And he’d locked her in a cell.

Shit.

He drank and slept and woke to drink and sleep again, angry with his father and sister and himself. He sent ser Loras to speak with her, saying if Loras wasn’t convinced, Jaime would have her executed — which the other knight believed, and probably Brienne would too.

Jaime knew better. The wench was no liar. She had lied her best to the men who’d found them first, the Stark murderers, and it was so pathetically unbelieveable that Jaime risked showing his face, so he could lie in her stead

And she’d loved Renly.

The fool, he thought, and finished his drink. The poor, ugly fool.

Tyrion married Sansa Stark in a humiliating spectacle while Jaime stood like a stone. It was the kindest thing he could do for his brother.

Well, he supposed he could kill Joffrey. Stop the horrible laughter.

But that brought its own complications.

The great tall cow was freed from her cell and stared at Jaime the entire time as if it were all _his_ fault, Joffrey’s laughter included, and later she cornered him. “What was that?”

“That was a wedding. I understand you’re not familiar with the ceremony, or its subsequent consequences, but —“

“You _allowed_ that to happen. You _permitted_ Sansa Stark to marry your brother.”

“What would you have me do? Should I offer up my other hand? ... at least Tyrion will be good to her.”

“The _imp?!”_ she said. “All he does is—”

“Drink and whore. Yes. I know my brother.” The room was too small — too dim — the furnishings too plush — he couldn’t breathe here. He pushed past her, and of course she followed, when had he ever walked fast enough to evade her?

They came out to the little balcony where at least there was some air and a fierce hot sun.

They faced each other. “As I said: I know Tyrion. He is no Joffrey. He will ... he will not harm her. He’s had enough of seeing women cry.”

“Will Lady Sansa think he is kind? Jaime. You swore an oath to help that girl, to keep her safe and bring her home. And all you’ve done is bring her from the wolves’ den to the lions’.”

When she spoke his name, his chest hurt. “Are you implying Kings Landing is unsafe?”

“For Ned Stark’s daughter? You saw what King Joffrey did to her, what he said. No,” she said. “I didn’t hear it either. But I saw her. I know what he said and so do you.”

He looked away a long moment, half-wishing he’d left her in the bear pit. “What would you have me do?”

“Something,” she said. “Anything. Jaime, you’re better than this.”

He thought of Cersei kneeling before him, her hands at his waist; thought of Tyrion’s face in the sept that morning; thought of Brienne screaming in fear and rage and pain as they beat her. And he’d done nothing. He never did.

“No,” he said. “I’m not.”

Then Joffrey died and Tyrion fled and Jaime lost track of Brienne, and of his heart.

When he came to, she was there — looking at him out the side of her eye when they passed (“Ser Jaime”), or her lanky figure practicing against a shadow partner, while he wished ... something; and once, a long pale form slipping out of the sea, wrapping in a blanket while he watched from the wall, too distant to see anything but sun, shadow, form.

He knew she missed her island. Did she swim every morning there? He’d seen her nude at Harrenhall and thought nothing of it, wanting Cersei; now he never saw it and thought of it often.

And Cersei ... she came to him once when he was watching the practice yards, sore with himself over things he couldn’t say. She slid a hand around his waist and laughed at Jaime when he started back. “Jumpy, brother?”

“What are you doing here? You’ve never been here before. I didn’t know you knew where here was.”

“Oh, I’ve been to the yards before. You don’t know every one of my steps.” She tittered.

Jaime considered throwing her over the side.

Cersei said “I’ve seen you watching her.”

No bother asking who; Brienne was the only female in the yards. “She saved my life.”

“Indeed. So I heard. Is that all?”

“What else could there be?” said Jaime: and he smiled.

He sent Brienne away that evening, with his sword. _Take this, it’s yours._

_I cannot accept —_

_You can. It’s yours. Use it to fulfill your oath. And fulfill mine too, while you’re ar it, would you? Obviously I am insensible of the value of my own honor. It must rest in your hands._

_Ser Jaime,_ she’d said, protesting: and then apparently decided not to argue after all. _I will do this for you — for you, and for Lady Catelyn._

He nodded, thinking of her body in the ocean, white foam on white skin. Salt and sweetness.

She colored. _Ser._

And she was gone.

He dreamt of her again and again.

Jame was standing in the White Tower looking out, doing nothing and thinking nothing, when someone started to yell and was cut off in a choking gasp.

It sounds familiar.

He reached for his swordbelt, tying it around his waist with horrible clumsy slowness when some man said a loud “Bitch!”

— and then he knew for sure.

He was halfway down the steps, taking them two at a time, when he met her coming up: holding her arm, blood swelling out over her fingers; her mouth split, her eye red and purple. 

She was more beautiful as he’d ever seen her.

He turned around and went back upstairs to his room, Brienne trailing behind.

  
“He hurt you.”

“No.”

“Your arm —“

“It’s nothing.”

“And your head? Your face? There’s blood in your hair, you should see a — Brienne, _stop pacing_. Sit down. Did he take your dagger?

“No. It was on his thigh. I swiped but he moved, I grazed him — missed him.”

“No. You didn’t.” He tugged her tunic. “Sit.”

She sat, but did not relax. “It’s ... Sometime they’re going to do it, Jaime. I need to be lucky every time, better and faster and stronger _every time_. Eventually that’s going to run out.” She was not shaking or weeping; she was flat-voiced, accepting.

Jaime touched her face. Wiped away a warm trail of blood. He didn’t realize until it was done he had never touched her before — and then it seemed so right that he did it again. His cock shifted. “You will protect yourself. And not all men ... most of us don’t.”

She gave him a strange look. “I really am unlucky, then. Myself, and nearly all the women I know. Strange how very very many women have been hurt and how very very few men do the hurting, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t hurt you.” Or had he already? And does it matter? The wind moaned around the building, saying _Kingslayer, sister-fucker — murderer._ Why not add _raper_ , too?

The wind said _Why not?_ He wanted to do so much — he had _already done_ so much — what was one more thing?

He shifted closer.

She looked at the distance and at him. “I need to go. This arm should be cleaned. Stitched. Jaime — thank you.”

And she left.

He stared at the door a blank second and followed.

At the stairwell again:

“What are you —“

“Fight with me. Spar. Practice, Brienne.“

She gave a short nod. “Tomorrow morning.”

The next morning he was up at dawn — when the light was a pale thin streak across the sky, colourless — and they fought in silence for an hour and more.

Where there is an error, the gods will try to correct it. Jaime, thick with wanting, fell into his sister’s bed.

Where he was careful, he was incautious; where he was slow and asked for allowance, he did not wait. _Brienne_ he thought, and pushed Cersei’s face down into the pillow, hand clenching hard on her golden hair.

Afterwards he was sick at the sight of her and his own body, the mess and the damp and the smell of the sheets.

He tried to apologize.

Cersei said: “You haven’t made me feel like that since you lost your hand.”

And Jaime tried to smile. “Anytime, sweet sister.”

“Tonight,” she said, and dropped her gaze down. “I expect it will take you that long to get ready again. You’re turning grey, brother.”

He pushed away her hand. “So are you. We’re the same age, remember?”

“Not anymore. You’re older now ... it started when you came back. A number of things happened when you came back.” She rested her hands against his face, comfortably familiar, and kissed him. “You are mine, still. Aren’t you? Forever mine. And I am yours.”

“I am yours,” he said, wondering what name he had said when he came, if Cersei had heard it, if what he _wanted_ to do had any effect at all on what he _would_ do.

Morning. Spars. She won one bout and a second, lost the third, won the fourth — and called for a break. 

“Where are you going?” he said. “Brienne, wait.”

“To the baths.”

He nodded, and sat down to pick a stone out of his boot.

A little wind tugged at his feet til he rose from the ledge and followed.

Just disrobed, Brienne picked up her shift with alacrity when she saw him. “What are you doing?”

“A bath, wench. I’m sore, same as you.” He removed boots — a wretchedly complex business with one hand — and slowly unlaced his trousers.

“You’re doing this to bother me.”

“Is that so?” He came over, still tugging out the strings. “How is it a trial to you?”

She was all bruises, he saw that well enough. Some of them were from the man — a half-healed black eye, the thumbprint on her throat — and some others, more of them, were his own. He’d thumped her ribs and leg and even the wound on her arm, by mistake; she’d yelled out and returned his blow with more force, hitting him again when he tried to apologize, a sideways slash that his sloppy block couldn’t parry.

 _Say it again_ she’d told him; but he jumped back before that one caught him. _Apologize again, Jaime Lannister!_

“Should I apologize?” and touched the place her mouth had split, where the gods told him to touch, where he had wanted to be for months and months.

 _Take her_ said the sunlight on the floor, filtered down through years of dust and spiders. _Take her. Press her on the floor and feel her heat, make her cry out — make her cry —_

He recoiled.

“Jaime?”

He turned and staggered out, grabbing boots and laces as he went.

By the time his boots were on and his trousers laced, a pair of men were coming up — he knew them — they greeted him — and all he could think was what they would have seen, if he had stayed.

He was asleep and dreaming evil dreams when a knock half-woke him and he came swimming up, stumbling to the door. “Whositherenow?”

“Jaime?”

She was all mouth and eyes in the light of the candle. Wordless he let her inside.

“I woke you. I‘m sorry.”

Was she sorry, indeed.

He sat on the bed.

She sat next to him. “I’ll leave.”

“You don’t seem to be going.” His thoughts were thick on him, heavy; he was moving through mud. “Did you have a dream?”

She started. “How ... I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t need to say. I know. I dreamt of you, before. I told you that. I know you.”

Her fingers found his. “When — you mean in Harrenhall? What was it? What did you dream?”

“You know,” he said.

And she did know, she knew, because she kissed him — not as a maiden nor as a bride but a woman returning to her husband, beloved, well-known.

It was the only work of a moment to fall on the bed together, her hand guiding him inside, past rough hair — “Did you dream of this” — unlacing her own clothes and his best as she could while he kissed and bit and stroked — then, yes, he removed his hand (yes) and she swore at him for stopping and Jaime would have laughed but there simply was no time for anything else but to learn her, touch her, taste her while she begged.

He did not know who came first or when, he did not notice when she removed his shirt, he only cared to keep her mouth on his and her body under him, even after he slipped out and the sweat cooled on his skin: “Brienne,” because she had slipped away into some twilight world and he wanted her there — “Brienne. Do you hear that sound?”

She sat half-up. “I hear nothing. There is the ocean, I think. Or it might be snoring.”

“That’s ser Alayn. His nose was set wrong once. You don’t hear — whispering? Someone watching us. Someone seeing.”

“Jaime, you’re mad. This is the tower. Who would see us here?”

The gods, he wanted to say. The gods will see us.

But there was nothing and no one watching. For the first time since he had met her, they were alone.

And Jaime slept, legs twined, almost daring to be happy.

**Author's Note:**

> “Not All Men!!” you insist, and you are right. jaime lannister would NEVER.
> 
> *
> 
> diehard fans and cartophiles will note that i finally bothered to look at a map of Westeros.


End file.
